


Coming Back from the War

by Sab



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, minor character pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-08
Updated: 2001-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sab/pseuds/Sab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The story was about coming back from the war but there was no mention of the war in it." -- Hemingway. Or, Bonnie and the longest night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Back from the War

**Author's Note:**

> Indebted to Sorkin, and also Devika Parikh (who played Bonnie, assistant to the speechwriters), whose story seemed to want telling.
> 
> Thanks to Hemingway, for "A Moveable Feast," and to Punk for the Pact of Brotherhood.

The last time Devon had left, when the heat was record-breaking even for August and the radio wouldn't stop playing that one unintelligible Chili Peppers song, Bonnie hadn't been able to write for two months.

"Even cops get days off," he'd said, hunting in her glove compartment for his other housekey. "And for-fucking-give me but you're just a secretary."

She'd dropped him off at the station house and had offered to pick him up after his shift, but he shook his head and didn't kiss her goodbye before he slammed the door.

And that night, after she'd decided chapter four sucked and chapter three was unnecessary and most of chapter two sounded like a nine-year-old had written it, she'd called Rochelle and Lucy and they took her out and got her drunk and chipped in to pay for her second tattoo.

The day Devon came back, when the ice storm had turned the trees on her block into clawed, weeping dragons and it took twenty minutes to start her car in the morning, she'd just put the finishing touches on chapter eight.

She hadn't been surprised to see him at all.

"I have to go to work," she said, tugging on an Isotoner.

"Baby --"

She shook her head, but something had caught in her throat and stayed there when she tried to swallow around it. He'd been gorgeous as ever, clean shaven and in civilian clothes, the scarf she'd bought him wrapped around his neck twice. "I really have to go," she'd said. "Will you be here when I get back?"

He nodded once. "Yeah," he said. "I miss you."

"I know." She nodded too. "See you at eight."

She hadn't gotten home until quarter past ten that night, because Sam had been stuck on a dangling modifier and Toby had seventeen calls to make to the State Department and CJ's eight o'clock briefing had been pushed to nine, and then nine thirty. Devon was waiting on her stoop, blowing into his hands, and beside him on the concrete a yellow rose had gotten soggy and frozen.

"Hey, honey," he'd said, some weeks later, coming up behind her at the computer and resting his chin on her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Shit, I lost it," she said. "I had a great -- ah, hell." She wheeled around on her chair and let him kiss her, and he still tasted like the pesto he'd made for dinner.

"Look," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I know this writing stuff's important to you, but don't you get enough of that at work all day? I mean, we talked about it when you took this job -- I just want some of you to myself, that's all."

"You're busy too," she'd said, but it sounded weak even then, and she knew his salary was almost twice hers. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he'd said. But it wasn't.

This time, when he left, his mother wouldn't give her his number and his partner at the station said he'd gone on leave and wasn't expected back till June.

In April, she ended up staying even later at work, but she wasn't sure if that was by design or necessity.

And then one morning in May Toby called her into his office, and Ginger too, and told them they were going to have to start working some long days for a little while. Bonnie nearly laughed.

"What's up, Toby?"

He nodded at the couch. "Sit down. And, uh, shut the door?"

Bonnie shut the door, and Ginger sat down, and Bonnie sat down next to her. Ginger was already making that face that looked like she was about to cry, and she sat very straight on the edge of the sofa, her hands pressed together between her knees. Bonnie crossed her legs.

"We're about to have a big PR thing," Toby said. "The, ah, the President's got MS. You know what that is?"

Ginger nodded a few times.

"Yeah," said Bonnie.

"Okay then," Toby said. "So anyway, we're gonna go public in a little while, and it's gonna get really messy real fast. Sam and I are probably gonna be working late hours this week, next week -- indefinitely."

"Is he okay?" Ginger asked.

Toby nodded. "He's fine."

Ginger exhaled audibly. "Thank god," she said. "Poor President Bartlet."

Toby slid a hand up across his skull and held his eyes open wide for a moment. "Yeah, all right," he said. "That's all, then. You, you can go."

Bonnie stood up. "You need us to do anything?"

"Not right now."

"Okay," she said, pushing the door open.

Out in the bullpen, Ginger grabbed her arm and there were tears in her eyes. "Can you believe it?" she whispered.

Bonnie thought a minute. "I guess," she said. "Stranger things have happened."

Sometime around seven, after the senior staff had spent the day talking in hushed tones and Donna had brought blankets into the basement, Sam bounced a pen on Bonnie's desk and tried to catch it and it fell on the floor and rolled away. He looked after it sadly, and Bonnie tried not to laugh.

"Yes?" She blinked up at him.

"I -- we're going to need you to stay late tonight. I just wanted -- is that all right?"

"Yes, Sam. That's fine. Toby told me."

"Toby told you?" He looked terrified.

She smiled. "Sagittarius, Sam," she said.

"Oh," he said. "Oh. Okay. So -- you'll stay?"

"I'll stay," she said.

Ginger was still crying. Bonnie brought her another box of tissues to shut her up, but Ginger's eyes were red and her skirt was stained where she'd wiped tears and snot.

"I'm scared for him," Ginger said. "And for me -- is that awful? I'm so horrible."

Bonnie leaned against Ginger's desk. "It's not awful. If he leaves office we're out of jobs."

Ginger's eyes went wide. "I know!" she whispered. "I don't know what I'll do. I can't go back to temping, GOD, I hated temping."

"So do something else," Bonnie said.

"I'm not really cut out to be anything but a secretary," Ginger said. "Receptionist, assistant, support staff, all those fancy words that mean the chick who answers the phone and faxes things." She blew her nose. "What would you do? I mean -- if something awful happened."

Bonnie thought a minute. "It'd be a relief, in a way," she said. "I didn't -- I sort of got this job by accident, you know?"

Ginger shook her head.

"The staffing agency set me up here, interviewing for this job called 'Assistant Speechwriter.' And I was enough of an idiot to think that was what it was."

"Isn't it?"

Bonnie laughed. "How much writing do you do?"

Ginger laughed too, and blew her nose again. "Yeah," she said. "So is that what you want to be, I mean, when you -- you want to write books, or something?"

Bonnie rubbed her face with her hands, and Toby slammed his office door, telling them unsubtly that they were making too much noise. "Sure," she exhaled. "I want to write books or something. I gotta get back to work, Ginge. Keep the kleenex."

At quarter to midnight, after Bonnie'd called Devon's voicemail twice just to hear his voice, Donna came around with coffee.

"You look tired," Bonnie said. Donna nodded.

"I'm okay," she said. "Josh is taking a power nap at his desk, so I've got a few minutes. I figured I'd come by and check on the rest of you."

Bonnie flicked open the lid of the styrofoam cup and took a long draw off her coffee. It was too light and too sweet, but she was impressed that Donna remembered she took cream and sugar at all. "Thanks," she said. "This is great."

Donna looked at the floor a little. "I'm so sorry about all this," she said. "For you, and Ginger, and Carol, who have to go through this without --"

Bonnie shook her head, and took another drink of coffee to keep from snapping at Donna's superior frown. "Toby told us this morning," she said. "We know what's up."

Donna looked bruised. "Oh," she said, taking a little hop. "Okay."

"I got about ninety pages of copy to proof," Bonnie said. "Sam wants this an hour ago."

"Okay," Donna said. "Actually, I need to go talk to Joey."

Bonnie didn't know who Joey was, but didn't feel much like asking. "Have fun," she said.

"That's morbid," Donna said. Bonnie just waved.

Toby came out of his office with his tie lose, squeezing a pink rubber ball. "How's the, the thing?"

"I'm still waiting on that conference call," Ginger said. "They'll still call back, even though it's so late?"

"Oh, nobody's sleeping tonight," Toby thundered. "Ain't nobody in Washington, okay, who's gonna be sleeping tonight."

"Okay," Ginger said, swiping at her nose with a tissue.

"Jesus Christ, you're still crying?" Toby said, coming over to Ginger's desk. Bonnie fought the urge to spring to her defense. "We got six tons of work to do and you're sitting here looking for pity? It's a wonder we get any work done here, at all!"

"Hey, Toby, lighten up," Bonnie said. "It's almost one in the morning. We're all beat. Come on." She appealed to his professional side. "You want to look over Sam's thing on genetic privacy?"

Toby shot the ball against the wall and caught it again. "He done with that yet?"

"Only Sam's got the answer to that," Bonnie said with a wry smile. "But this draft looks pretty good. I made a couple notes."

"Ah, Bonnie, don't do that. We don't -- Sam's got enough pressure without -- leave the style commentary to me, will you? You know how Sam gets, he'll get hung up on one niggling detail just because you said --"

She raised her hands, palms out. "I deleted an apostrophe," she said. "And I added the word 'some.' You think I'm gonna cause an international crisis?"

But he'd already headed back to his office, and he waved a hand over his head. "Yeah, uh, holler the second that call comes through, Ginger," he said.

Two hours later, after the conference call had come and gone and Sam had taken back the report "for some more tinkering," Bonnie deleted most of chapter twelve of her novel and got up to stretch her legs.

She wandered over toward Josh and Leo's bullpen, and Margaret whistled to her when she walked past.

"That's some whistle," Bonnie said, sitting down.

Margaret nodded solemnly. "I've been practicing. In the event of an emergency, I figure someone ought to know how to do that thing with the two fingers in the mouth. And then I thought, why not me?"

"Why not you indeed," Bonnie agreed. "How's Leo?"

Margaret's eyes widened. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth," she said. "I was wondering if I should go in there. He hasn't left his office for two hours. Joey Lucas came by with Josh but that was well before midnight. And I was thinking, Leo's probably hungry. Because, I'm hungry. And I've eaten more recently than he has. But then I thought --"

"Yeah, sorry I asked," Bonnie said. "Who's Joey Lucas?"

"She's deaf," Margaret whispered. "She's the pollster Josh brought in."

"Okay," Bonnie said. "I'm gonna try and scare up a sandwich, want something?"

Margaret nodded. "Please."

Josh's door was open, and he was hunched over his desk. Donna was standing behind him, rubbing his shoulders idly, and he rocked his head on his neck and looked up when Bonnie paused in the doorway. "I'm getting some food," she said. "You guys need anything?"

"Sweet lord in heaven, my kingdom for a Whopper!" Josh said, slamming a palm on the desk.

Bonnie laughed. "I was thinking more along the lines of vending machine, but I'll see what I can do."

"Order in," Josh said. "Order something. Donna has petty cash. And the menus, Donna, you still have those menus?"

Donna let go of his shoulders and tousled his hair a little. "Yes," she said. "I still have the menus. You want from the diner again?"

"I want a hockey puck of a cheeseburger, and a swimming pool full of french fries," Josh said, taking Donna's hand and kissing it. Bonnie cringed. Donna blushed.

"Your wish is my command," Donna said, and floated out of the room.

"Hey, close the door?" Josh called, and Donna did, and Bonnie followed Donna to her desk.

Donna thumbed through the menu book, but she wasn't looking at any of the pages, and her eyes had a vague sort of glaze. Bonnie sighed.

"You okay?"

Donna looked up at her, scared. "Can I tell you something?"

Bonnie sat down. "Sure."

"About -- about an hour ago," Donna said. "After Joey left, after the last meeting. I was --Josh and I were going over some precedent, you know, Cleveland, Harrison --" She trailed off. "Yeah. I have to call the diner."

"What's up, Donna?"

Donna wrung her hands a little. "He said, 'I'd be nowhere without you.' And I said, 'I know.' And he said, 'I know you do, that's what makes you so appealing.' And, god, I should have just left, right then. I'm such a numbskull."

"And then he fucked you, right there on the floor of the secret conference room, right?" Bonnie didn't mean to sound so callous, but the fact that Donna couldn't see what a jerk Josh was made Bonnie want to punch her.

Donna shook her head. "He kissed me, though," she said. "And it was weird and wet and, I guess sort of nice. I mean. We're all a little crazy, it's the middle of the night, we're in full-on war mode, I can't really expect --"

"Good," Bonnie said. "Don't expect. Honey. He's your boss."

"I know," Donna said. "But he's also -- we sort of need each other, I think."

"Need each other, then," she said. "But don't forget he's an arrogant bastard who would probably only fuck you just to prove he could. Break your heart and get off on it, because it would be something he could be in control of. Because it is a rough night, right?"

Donna went white. "What do you want, like a club sandwich?"

Bonnie stood up again. "That's fine," she said. "Get Margaret something too. Let me get you some money."

"I got it," Donna said, but her voice was cold. "And then I really have a ton of work to do, so --"

"Yeah, I got it," Bonnie said. "I better go check on Sam. He's not gonna quit with this report until I pry it out of his cold dead hands."

"Hey --" Donna said, as Bonnie was leaving. "You're not gonna -- say anything, are you?"

Bonnie shook her head. As if there was anyone she'd tell. As if she cared. "No," she said. "I won't say a word."

"Good," Donna said.

Bonnie really wanted to go home. It was quarter to three, and all that caffeine had made her wired and twitchy, and it dried out her eyeballs when she tried to blink. She added a couple words to the beginning of chapter twelve, backed up and deleted some stuff from chapter three. Charlie breezed through with a stack of blue folders, waved without really looking at her. She dialed Devon's number but hung up before the voicemail picked up. Then she stumbled to Sam's office and rapped on the door.

"Yes. Come in." He sounded distracted, and she opened the door.

Sam was pacing, holding his report out in front of him and studying it like he was trying to commit it to memory.

"You're done, Sam," Bonnie said.

"I'm not," he said. "I mean, I am. Except, I'm not, because this is the most inane piece of tripe I've ever read, and I'm embarrassed even to be in the same room with it. So, if you mean done as in, my career is over and this administration is going to go down the tubes because I can't assemble a cohesive position on genetic privacy, I'm gonna say you're right."

"I read it," she said. "I thought you made some very valid points."

"Yeah," he said. "But, and excuse me for this, but this has to convince not only some of the top political and medical minds in this country, but also an entire breed of people bent on cutting us off at the knees. So I need a little bit better than your approval."

She exhaled. "Everyone's an asshole today," she said, sitting down at Sam's desk.

Sam gave her a slow, terrified, terrifying look. "Excuse me. But I don't think you appreciate the depth and breadth of the crisis we're facing. I know you're tired. I know you're underpaid. But for the good of the country --" He trailed off, as if even he realized he sounded insane. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was completely uncalled for. And I apologize. I'm just tired. We're all tired."

"Donna's getting food," Bonnie said. "I'll bet if you catch her now you can order something too."

"I can't eat," Sam said, setting the papers down and then picking them up. "I can't eat. I can't drink any more coffee. I can't even sit down. I can't -- what's a better word than 'invalidate'?"

Bonnie shrugged. "Beats me," she said. "I'm not a writer." She cracked a grin at her own little joke.

"I know," Sam said. "I'm sorry. Really. I am sorry. Did you hear about the tanker at Rehoboth Beach?"

Bonnie had, and she remembered it had something to do with Sam, though if pressed she wouldn't be able to say what. "Yeah," she said.

"I'm just -- I'm walking this very fine line between utterly incapable and way too capable. You ever feel like that?"

"Never," Bonnie said. "Toby wants to see the report, though."

"Toby will have to wait. I've got to talk to Joey --"

"Joey left, according to Donna," Bonnie said.

"Yeah," Sam said. "But she's coming back."

"Joey gets around," Bonnie said, raising her eyebrows.

"Joey is the lone voice of reason," Sam said. "Which, unfortunately, also makes her the lone voice of doom, these days. But if I can get her some numbers to work with --" He paced another little circle and then stopped by his desk, and Bonnie stood up.

"Good luck with that," she said. "I'm gonna -- go collate something and wait for my club sandwich."

Sam sat down. "Good," he said. "I'll have a club sandwich too. No mayonnaise. No bacon. No avocado."

Bonnie pushed open the door. "I'll tell Donna," she said.

She'd met Devon the day after she finished the first draft of the first three chapters, the day she'd spent the last of her advance on brake pads and a rear tire. Rochelle was at the bar and Bonnie'd been poking at the jukebox and he'd come up behind her, still in uniform with a whiskey sour in one hand and a Newport in the other. "You like the Ink Spots?"

She didn't know the Ink Spots. She scrolled back a page on the jukebox. "Yeah," she said.

"Do, 'I'll Never Smile Again,'" he'd said, pressing a quarter into her palm. "And then you'll dance with me, right, baby?"

She slipped the quarter into the machine, looked at her reflection in the glass, licked her lower lip. "Right," she'd said.

When he asked her what she did for a living, she told him she was a writer. Then she didn't write a word for the first six months they were together.

After she called Sam's order in to Donna on the intercom, she opened chapter eleven again.

It was sophomoric, pathetic, the protagonist was a bitch and her husband was a total pushover and the whole thing skimmed the surface, just barely managing to be boring. Bonnie erased four pages, then three more. She chewed the end of her pen. Ginger blew her nose.

"You still working on Sam's thing?" Ginger asked.

Bonnie thought about telling Ginger, but the idea exhausted her. "No, just -- something else," she said.

"Should I have a copy? I mean, for the file?"

Bonnie exhaled. "No, this is -- this is something of my own," she said.

"Something you're writing?"

"Yeah."

"What, like a story?"

Bonnie deleted two more pages and stared at a blank screen where chapter eleven used to be. "Yeah," she said. "Like a story."

"I'd love to read it," Ginger said. "I mean, after we get over this -- oh, god, this thing with President Bartlet." She started crying again. "Look at me, I'm a mess."

Bonnie nodded. "You are," she said. She quit Word. "I'm going for a walk," she said. "If Sam ever finishes that thing, send someone to find me, will you?"

"Sure," Ginger said. Bonnie realized no one had asked Ginger if she wanted to eat. Ginger didn't even seem to care. Ginger'd just been sitting in the same place, for hours, for days, it seemed. Inputting files into her database and drinking her coffee and blowing her nose. It made Bonnie squirm.

She wandered the halls a little, in the dark. She thought about Devon, because this was one of those nights it would have been nice to have him to come home to. She wondered if he'd ever talk to her again. She wondered if she really wanted him to.

"I threw away the novel," she imagined herself saying to him. "I'm not gonna be a writer. I just miss you." And he'd take her back, again, of course. And she'd hate herself for it, and she'd hate him too, but she'd have someone's arms to crawl into, after too many hours in this place, surrounded by people doing important things she didn't quite understand.

Something made her stop, outside the Roosevelt Room. It was dark inside, but she stuck her head in anyway, and for a minute she thought she heard the sound of careful, even breathing.

"Hello?"

"It's just me," a voice said. "Hope I didn't scare you."

Bonnie pushed in, and her eyes adjusted to the dark a little, enough for her to make out the shape of the First Lady, sitting in the corner of one of the couches.

"Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Bartlet."

"It's Dr.," the First Lady said. "It's really Dr. Bartlet."

"I'm sorry," Bonnie said. "Dr. Bartlet. I was just stretching my legs. Excuse me."

Dr. Bartlet peered up at her. "Bonnie, right?"

"That's right."

"Come here, Bonnie," the First Lady said. "Sit down."

Bonnie had never exchanged more than four words with the First Lady in her life. She sat down on the other end of the couch and folded her hands in her lap and waited to see what Dr. Bartlet would do.

"You work for Sam and Toby, over in Communications."

"I do, ma'am," Bonnie said.

Dr. Bartlet raised a hand. "No 'ma'am's after three a.m.," she said. "That's a rule of mine."

Bonnie smiled. "Fair enough," she said.

"How are they? Sam and Toby, I mean."

"Sam's struggling with his report on genetic privacy," Bonnie said. "Toby's fighting with some guys at the State Department. Everyone's a little tense tonight."

Dr. Bartlet laughed, full-on. "You think? You think the fact that tomorrow we break the news that my husband's got a degenerative disease -- you think that might put a couple folks on edge, maybe?"

Bonnie laughed too. "Maybe," she said.

"You're lucky, getting to work with Sam and Toby, getting to watch them go into battle. They're spectacular fighters, all of them. These are the times that try men's souls, you know the drill."

"I can imagine," Bonnie said.

"Imagine?" Dr. Bartlet said. "I should think you'd be caught up in it too. You're as much a part of this administration as any of us."

"I suppose so," Bonnie said. "I'm not really -- brought into the loop, where policy's concerned."

The First Lady shook a finger. "Don't play dumb with me," she said. "I've read your file. Pell Grant, Watkins Fellowship, and you got an advance from Henry Holt for a novel, right?"

"Yeah," Bonnie was surprised. "I mean, yes, ma'am."

She let the ma'am slide. "So you're no slouch. You should let the boys put you to work. We can use all the help we can get."

Bonnie felt nervous, embarrassed, caught slacking off, something. She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest, and she could feel her heart thrum. "I'm sorry," she said. "I haven't been -- I don't think I'm cut out for this kind of work."

"Why not?" Dr. Bartlet asked. "You're a writer. You wrote speeches for Lisl Kahn, down in the 17th, right?"

"She lost," Bonnie smiled. "And it was a long time ago."

"Don't talk to me about a long time ago," Dr. Bartlet said. "I was chasing Jed on whistlestop tours when you were still in grade school. If we can stick it out, you can, kiddo."

"I'm really sorry about President Bartlet," Bonnie said. "Is he feeling all right?"

"He's fine," Dr. Bartlet said. "Don't be sorry. Sorry never got anyone anywhere. Not in this business, anyhow."

"Still --" Bonnie said.

"I know," Dr. Bartlet nodded a couple times. "I appreciate it. That's why I'm an old woman sitting alone in the White House in the dark at four in the morning."

"I should check on Sam," Bonnie said, but she didn't stand up.

"No," Dr. Bartlet said. "Sit with me a little. How's the novel?"

"It's fine."

"You're lying."

Bonnie smiled. "I'm lying. It's kicking my ass."

"Good," Dr. Bartlet said. "It's no good unless you have to work for it. At least, that's what I keep telling myself."

"We'll get through this," Bonnie said, though she hadn't given it much thought until right then. "This is a tough crew."

"They're the best." The First Lady exhaled. "Toby, Sam, Josh, Leo, all of them. Joey Lucas is a godsend. And then, you know, you do your best work, work you never even thought you were capable of, when you really care about something."

Bonnie nodded. She wondered if she'd ever cared about something that much. "I believe you," she said, finally.

"I mean, look at the way Hemingway wrote about war," Dr. Bartlet went on.

"Yeah, but he made war romantic. He made it look like fun. It's horrible."

"It's all perception," Dr. Bartlet shrugged.

They sat in silence a little.

"He's worth it, you know," Dr. Bartlet said. "Jed. President Bartlet. Which doesn't mean I'm not mad as hell because he swore up and down he wouldn't run a second term, because he knew the stress would just make him sicker. But there's only so far I can fight him. Because he's worth it."

"He's a rare breed," Bonnie said, but it sounded arrogant and she tried to take it back. "I mean, I really admire President Bartlet and think he has a lot to offer this country. It's an honor to work for him." She'd never thought of that, either. She sounded like an idiot.

But Dr. Bartlet didn't seem to mind. "Yes," she said. "He is." And then she just sort of stared off into space again, and Bonnie stood up.

"I've got to get back to work," she said.

"Okay," Dr. Bartlet nodded vacantly. "Take care of them."

"I will," Bonnie said. "I promise."

"It's a long night," Dr. Bartlet said.

"I anticipate a lot of them," Bonnie said.

Dr. Bartlet looked at her. "Oh, honey, you've got no idea."

"It was really nice talking to you, Dr. Bartlet."

"Likewise, darling," the First Lady said, and Bonnie left her alone in the dark again.

Sam was still staring at the report, and there were two club sandwiches in plastic boxes on his desk.

"The one with the toothpick's yours," he said, not looking up. She sat down and opened the plastic box and ate a ruffled potato chip.

"How's it going?"

He groaned. "I should really just throw myself in front of a bus," he said.

She ate another potato chip, and looked at Sam. He looked exhausted, tired and wired. "You need help?"

"No," he said. "Yes. Yes, Bonnie, I absolutely need help. Help me."

She reached over and picked up the report. "Gladly. I had some ideas when I was looking this over before -- you know the bit about birth defects?"

"Yeah?" Sam creaked.

"Dump it," Bonnie said. "It's off-task, and plus, people find that sort of thing creepy. I mean. I know that's a terrible thing to say, but we want to steer clear of equating MS with mental retardation, don't you think?"

"I wasn't equating --" Sam began, and then stopped, got up, walked a lap around the room. "Good idea. Let's lose that."

Bonnie picked up a pen and scratched out two pages. "Good," she said. "Also, these statistics, the thing about Bethesda -- are we sure about these numbers?"

"Of course I'm sure. I double-checked. I triple-checked. I was very thorough."

She nodded. "Okay," she said. "Then let's dump that too. All it says is that sometimes people lie on their medical charts. Which is okay for a 20/20 special, but maybe not the best thing for us here. I think 'lying' is another word we should steer clear of, no?"

Sam leaned his forehead against the doorjamb. "Abso-fucking-lutely," he said. "Lose it. And lose the thing about Billy Reigns too. What a jerk that guy is, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I was going to suggest that," Bonnie said, scratching out a couple more pages. "And that's good because it brings the MS reports up next to Grover Cleveland, which isn't a bad place for them to be."

"Very presidential," Sam agreed. "Joey'll like that. She can use that."

"So she's using this to design a new poll?" Bonnie asked. "I mean, I don't really know --ha, talk about eleventh hour, Sam, but I don't really know what we're doing, here."

He looked at her. "You don't? Toby didn't tell you? I figured Toby told you. You said Toby told you."

She sighed, and then rubbed her face with her hand because she was sure her embarrassment showed. "I didn't ask," she said.

"Okay." Sam looked surprised.

"I'm asking now," she said, and smiled.

Sam sat down again. "Good," he said. "Good. This is good."

There was a knock on the door, and Bonnie looked up. A woman stood in the doorway, with a dark-haired man about a half-pace behind her.

Sam leaped to his feet, and Bonnie stood too. "Joey! I'm glad you're here," Sam said.

The dark-haired man signed the greeting, and Joey smiled back. "You people can't do anything without me," she said.

"We're pretty much useless," Sam agreed. He turned to Bonnie. "Joey, this is my assistant Bonnie. Bonnie, this is Joey --"

Bonnie reached out, and Joey shook her hand warmly, shot her an even warmer smile. "Glad someone's looking after Sam," Joey said.

"I'm glad to do it," Bonnie said to Joey, and Joey didn't even need the sign language translation.

"Bonnie's brilliant," Sam said, to no one in particular.

Josh materialized in the doorway, clapped his hands on Joey's shoulders and jumped up and down twice. "We working, or are we just standing here looking pretty?"

Joey turned around to read the sign interpretation and then stuck her tongue out at Josh. "Nice to see you too, Joshua."

Josh rubbed his hands together. "Come on, come on, I'm wired, let's get cracking. This is my best hour. Let's kick some serious political ass."

And then Joey slapped Josh on his serious political ass, and no one but Bonnie saw Sam cringe and look away, just for an instant.

Toby's pink rubber ball sailed through the door, and Joey's interpreter caught it. Toby came into Sam's office a second later. "Ah, the prodigal Joey returns. Now maybe something will happen around here. I mean, I mean, the sun's not up, it's early yet."

"The night is young and so are we," Josh said. "Well, everyone but Toby."

Bonnie got up to vacate the chair, and Toby collapsed into it and Joey shut the door and leaned against it, her arm around Josh's waist. Bonnie watched them all, and couldn't hide her smile.

Easy to do good work if you really care about something, she thought, and Joey's interpreter lobbed the rubber ball back at Toby but Josh plucked it out of the air mid-arc.

Sam handed Bonnie the report again. "Here. Take notes. Write things. Holler when you've got ideas. You can do that?"

She nodded. "I can do that," she said.

And then Joey started talking, her hands twitching wildly, her interpreter speaking for her, punching words. Bonnie looked at her watch. It was five am.

She wouldn't be getting back to her novel, she thought, not for a long time. Not till this was over, and maybe not even then. Because somehow, here with 90 pages of notes and Sam's expensive Cross rollerball, she was a different kind of writer. A better kind of writer. The kind that might have won the state senatorial campaign for Lisl Kahn, back in Virginia, if she'd realized. The kind that could have helped Sam an hour ago, a year ago. If she'd realized.

Sam's sandwich was still untouched, and Bonnie realized that if she hadn't slept in days, these people hadn't slept in weeks, months probably. But here they were. Toby groaned at something. Joey and her interpreter laughed.

"Hey, Bonnie!" Sam said, waving both hands. "Write this down --"


End file.
